Page 3 of His Emotional Support Snack

She does not flinch as I loom over her, my frame blocking out the meager harbor light.

"He belongs to no one in your rotting city." She spits the words, her chin rising another fraction of an inch to maintain eye contact. Staring directly into the eyes of a noble is an offense punishable by flaying. She knows this. She does it anyway. "He is my son. Brought into this world by my body, with the seed of a dark elf who promised he would protect us."

The lie—if it is a lie—is delivered with flawless conviction. My brother always possessed a tragic, foolish weakness for human strays. It is entirely plausible this feral creature shared his bed.

"My brother is dust." I inspect a fleck of soot on my obsidian ring, feigning supreme boredom while the Marrow-Rot claws at my internal organs. "His promises died with him. You, however, present a unique inconvenience. The boy’s blood is required to secure my estate, and his survival ensures my brother’s soul does not freeze in Glacies. I have no use for the vessel that birthed him."

"Try to take him from me." She shifts her weight onto her back foot, her hands raising into a crude, street-brawler guard. "I will tear your eyes out before you touch him."

A hollow, raspy laugh escapes my throat. The sheer, blinding audacity is almost magnificent. She is a speck of dirt, a fragile thing of brittle bones and fleeting breath, threatening a lord of Vhoig.

"I command reality with a whisper." I lean closer, dropping my voice until it is nothing but a lethal hum vibrating through the damp air. The scent of rain on fresh earth radiates from her skin, an oddly clean scent in this cesspit. "I could turn your blood to boiling glass. I could twist your spine until your heels touch the back of your head. Do not mistake my restraint for mercy, human."

She pales, a slight tremor finally betraying the terror she works so hard to conceal, but she does not lower her hands.

Kalan lets out a sharp sob, burying his face into the back of her knee.

The sound grating against my nerves is a vivid reminder of the ticking clock. Zatori’s remaining spies will descend on this district within the hour. The display in the alley has already drawn too much attention.

I straighten, breaking the physical proximity, and snap my fingers.

The shadows at the entrance of the alleyway detach themselves from the brick walls. Commander Jarek steps into the rain, his black armor absorbing the dim light. A squad of six elite Miou warriors fans out behind him, their twin curved blades drawn and resting easily at their sides. Silent, efficient executioners.

The woman’s breath catches, her eyes darting to the armored forms blocking the only exit. The fight drains from her posture, replaced by a cold, calculating despair. She knows she cannot fight seven trained killers.

"My lord." Jarek inclines his head, his eyes sweeping over the ash pile and settling on the shivering human. "The area is secure. Shall we dispose of the breeder?"

The woman tenses, her arms dropping to wrap fiercely around the boy, turning her back to the blades.

"No." I flick a speck of rain from my sleeve. "The boy requires a caretaker until he is old enough to be properly disciplined. Furthermore, a sudden half-blood ward appearing in my halls will invite too many questions from my esteemed uncle."

Jarek’s expression remains stoic, but a flicker of confusion passes through his eyes. "Your orders?"

"Bind her." I turn my back on the pair, staring out into the tempest drowning the Lowtown. "Use the silk ropes. Ensure they do not chafe her wrists. She is to be presented to the court as my favored human mistress. A trend, I believe, that is currently fashionable among the elite."

A sharp, ragged gasp escapes the woman. "I am not your pet."

"You are whatever I decree you to be." I glance over my shoulder, allowing the violet glow of my eyes to flare, bathing the alley in an eerie, unnatural light. "If you wish for the boy to survive the week, you will wear the silks, you will smile for the nobility, and you will play the role of a cherished plaything flawlessly. Defy me, and I will hand you both to Zatori."

Jarek steps forward, producing a coil of iridescent purple silk from his belt.

She stares at the rope, then down at the child clinging to her leg. Her jaw works, grinding against the injustice of her reality. Slowly, agonizingly, she lowers her arms and offers her wrists to the Miou commander. The submission is a physical agony to her, broadcast in every rigid line of her body.

"Bring them to the carriage." I wave a dismissive hand, fighting another vicious spasm of the Marrow-Rot.

As Jarek secures the bindings, twisting the soft silk around her delicate wrists, her eyes meet mine one last time. There is no defeat in that gaze. Only a cold, enduring promise of retribution.

I turn away, walking into the storm, the heat of her defiance warming the icy decay spreading through my chest. The game of masks has begun.

3

ESME

Smooth silk glides over blistered, salt-chapped skin.

My eyes snap open. Breath hitches in my throat, catching on a jagged edge of panic. The last memory burning in my mind is the blinding flash of violent purple magic in the alleyway, the Miou commander twisting iridescent silk bindings around my wrists.

I brace for the bite of iron shackles. The damp, moldering rot of a subterranean dungeon. The echoing screams of the Lowtown torture pits.